


Keep My Arms the Rest of the Night

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Xenosaga
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You: Approaching Your (Temporary) End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep My Arms the Rest of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, folks! Kind of messing around with some different POV styles here! Hope it's alright...
> 
> Anyhow. For maximum emotions, and best effect, I recommend listening to "Don't Swallow the Cap" by The National before, during, or after reading this. Seriously....
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFnA-8H-5lo
> 
> Enjoy! (And give your Gaignun some love today, god knows he needs it.)

 

* * *

 

_There's a time to leave, there's a time to think about_   
_What I wanna say to the girls at the door._   
_I need somewhere to be_   
_But I can't get around the river in front of me._   
_Come down, it's alright,_   
_Lead my arms the rest of the night._   
_When they ask what do I see,_   
_I see a bright white beautiful heaven hangin' over me._

* * *

 

They’re all looking at you.

You want to deny it, and you begin to think that if you just turn cheek and ignore it, it might actually go away.

Of course, it won’t. Your eyes turn redder with each passing day, tired out and dry from the tears, and the insomnia, and all the lost time you’re creating while you fight your little war. The circles beneath them are growing darker too—your eyes are starting to look sunken and dead with those hovering streaks of bruised skin encapsulating them. You are becoming a skeleton.

They notice. They have noticed. They spread rumors like disease—“He’s looking so tired, so thin, so sick,” and you know with an ache in your heart that they’re almost true.

He takes your body more and more these days. Sometimes, you can’t remember if it was even your home in the first place. Maybe _you_ are the intruder—maybe _he_ is the rightful owner. Maybe you should give up.

You think about it a lot.

 But you still don’t.

You drag your feet through each day, praying to a god you’ve never believed in that today won’t be the one, the one where your grip loosens, and he pushes you back beneath the surface. You pray even harder that if that is the case, that it’ll just be a matter of losing another battle, and not the whole war.

You’re going to lose either way. You just need to delay the inevitable.

When your body is yours, you go on with your life like nothing is happening. Your lips are sewn shut by his dim threats, pushing against the walls of your subconscious, constantly making it harder and harder to hold on. Your brain throbs under his presence, screaming for mercy until you can’t think anymore.

So live out your life with a big smile. You kiss your brother’s forehead and ruffle his hair while you say in a voice that’s all-too-singsong:

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

You go to work and do your job, you keep them safe—all of them—while a killer lurks, mumbling and pacing patiently in the back of your head.

_Another_ killer, you remind yourself. You’ve scrubbed your hands so hard for all these years, but the blood still hasn’t washed off.

It’s awful. All of it. But—

But worst of all, you go to parties. You host them, you attend them—you do as you’re expected, even as his consciousness slips out from the hole you drove him into, and wraps his bony fingers around the exposed skin of your neck—

You’ve always trusted that it would never happen here. He would never risk such a thing. What a silly thought. But you’re wrong, wrong, wrong, you’re always _wrong._ Your head begins to hurt. Your heart leaps up in your throat, because it’s the first symptom. Every time. You tell yourself “It’s just a normal headache,” and clench your teeth. But the room spins. The world stops and starts like a damaged video. You can’t walk straight, because your legs seem to have dissipated while you were too busy grinning-and-bearing, blissfully turned away. Voices scream in your head in a cacophony that leaves each one indistinguishable from the next, yet somehow, one man’s eclipses them all.

Everything is red, and the world is suddenly ending right before your eyes, as all your guests stop and stare—

They’re all looking at you.

You sit down. It’s not elegant; you fall into the closest chair you can manage to feel out. The wine glass trembles in your hand, its contents untouched all night, for fear it might loosen your control that last little bit—

You wrinkle your nose, and down the glass quickly.

In a way, you’ve given up. Surrendered before the damage is done—you are waving a bright white flag stained red and purple, because you know the second this party is over, you have no hope of being yourself any longer.

You set the glass down. You laugh, quietly, bitterly, turned away so that no one may hear you.

_“Two weeks.”_ You think. You had him beat for two weeks this time around. It’s not bad, actually. It’s been worse.

It’s also been much, much better.

So what do you need to do now?  You’re already making a list, ignoring the snide gaze of the man inside your head:

You think of your brother and his friends. You just have to trust them. You can do that. You already do that. You think of the Foundation—you have capable people. They’ll have it handled. Like always. You think of Mary and Shelley—should you say something? You need to tell them you’ll be gone. But for how long this time…?

You realize only then that it’s too likely that your prison sentence has never been so indefinite. So your ‘vacation’ will have to be too.

The room stops spinning as you rise for the table and head for the crowds. It’s a relief to your heart, if a painfully bittersweet one. Their eyes are still on you, but that’s to be expected. Their questions and your answers sound dimly in your ears, until they’ve all calmed down, blindly satisfied with your veneer.

You have two hours left.

Make it count.

Before your puppet strings are reattached, and he makes you dance all over again. 


End file.
